


The Fabric of My Sexual Existence

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:30:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam recalls his sexual explorations, from his childhood onward, which lead him to an increasingly satisfying acceptance of his objectum-sexuality. And to the perfect partner...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fabric of My Sexual Existence

PART 1

My first sexual experience took place in a rock pool. My parents had taken a holiday house in a beautiful, bush-clad cove, at the feet of whose cliffs lay boulders, rocks, stones and pebbles in what seemed, to my child’s eye, artful rather than random, designs.

The massive boulders were arranged pancake fashion, their smooth faces welcoming both to the sun and my naked body. The rough rocks, aggressive in their massage of my bare feet, were scattered around these giants like children. The round and oval stones that were their garden were heavy enough to make a nice plopping sound when they landed in the sea. As for the pebbles, I remember them for the faint hiss they made every time a wave retreated, and every time I displaced them with a plunge of my hand.

But it was the rock pools that drew my undivided attention, and it was my exploration of their interiors that informed my later understanding of the phrase, “falling in love”.

> The new drama teacher was in his late twenties, of slender build and serious expression. He somehow managed to frown even when smiling, as though he was in a permanent state of disbelief at the chaos of his world. For it was chaotic. He was Irish, a redhead, and stereotypically prone to fiery outbursts - mainly over problems his brilliantly disorganized ideas had helped to create. But these tirades were never directed at me, despite my shyness which I knew could be aggravating to quicksilver personalities. And I knew the reason for this had something to do with him not wanting to meet my eye.
> 
> During rehearsals of a new play for the seniors, he asked if I would mind helping him out with costumes. As yet I had been content to lurk at the back of choruses, or act as one of the production gophers. His request sent me into ecstasy over-load. I often hung out in the costume and props room adjoining the theatre, happily poking my nose, among other things, into the racks of costumes, running my hands over them, raising handfuls of my favourites to caress my face.  
> 
> I waited for over an hour and decided he wasn’t going to come. I was standing in front of a bank of open shelves where everything from paint to furnishings were stored. I had pulled out a remnant of the most beautiful authentic chenille, ruby coloured, and was rubbing it against my cheek with one hand while the other was down my pants. I was so absorbed I failed to hear the door open. I spun around and there he was – my drama teacher. I had managed to extract my hand from my pants but was still holding the fabric to my face.
> 
> “Don’t stop,” he said. “it's all right. Wait.”
> 
> I heard him locking the door and closing the blinds on the windows. The room was suddenly dimly lit. There was no time to feel apprehensive or embarrassed for he quickly was behind me, had me in his arms, and was unzipping my fly.
> 
> “Tell me,” he said. "Tell me what it feels like.”
> 
> I knew exactly what he was asking and was more than happy to oblige .As an obsessive I had ready access to encyclopaedic knowledge of my sexual objects.
> 
>  _“_ This is Chenille,” I said, as though introducing a person. “It has a unique pile,” I brushed my lips with the pile, “created by the way short lengths of yarn are twisted around the core threads.” I swept the fabric across my throat. “The twist creates an upright pile, but it is soft, moving in different directions depending on where the light falls. This gives it an iridescent quality – “
> 
> But I couldn’t continue. He took the other end of the fabric remnant and scrunched it over my cock to catch my ejaculate. He turned me around to face him. He mopped me up and did up my pants.
> 
> He stared at me, frowning. I smiled nervously. I was worried that he might want to kiss me. But thankfully he didn’t. "This is way out of line, I know," he said thoughtfully, "but I wonder... The thing is, I am a newbie collector of textiles and you, well, clearly you are way ahead of the game. That description of chenille was -. it was incredible. I wonder if you would consider..."
> 
> Over the next two years I taught him everything I knew.

PART 2

For once I had the rock pools to myself. My brother had accompanied our father on one of his famously futile fishing expeditions. My mother was reading, as she was wont for the duration of any holiday.

I had already identified the pool that was richest in flora and fauna, and which offered the greatest seclusion from other cove visitors. I had to clamber over several of the boulder outcrops to find it, nestled between their walls and fed by long channels of volcanic rock that stretched out into the sea. No-one using the cove for walks or for swimming could see me. I ran quickly, lightly, over the rocks, the sun burning the top of my head and the soles of my feet. The latter, my feet, were as keen instruments of sensitive touch as my hands. I loved those heated stones, loved dancing over them, convinced I need never look down for my feet had their own brains and could safely guide me guide me over every gap and fissure.

And there it was.

I  circled the pool in much the same way an animal might circle something of possible interest, possible danger. The water was perfectly still except for the invisible tingling of its molecular substance, and when I lay down beside it the magic of refraction brought the pool’s inhabitants, both organic and mineral, close to my eyes.  I had a fair knowledge of what these consisted. Above my bunk in the crib there was a poster, “A Key to Common Flora and Fauna in Tidal Pools” and I would go to sleep reciting their names.

 _abalone, anemones, brown seaweed, chitons, crabs, green algae, hydroids, isopods, limpets, mussels, nudibranchs, sculpin, sea cucumber, sea lettuce, sea palms, sea stars, sea urchins, shrimp, snails, sponges, surf grass, tube worms, whelks_

I slowly dived my hand and arm into the pool. The sensation of coolness ran up my submerged arm to enter my body, making me ache to bodily enter that state, but I refrained. I let my hand caress the debris of shells and stones on the pool floor, items large and small and every shade of grey, white, pale blues and pale yellows. Here and there the smaller rocks gave purchase to tiny stands of spidery weeds, some dark green and fibrous like pine tree fronds, some white and lace-like, some a sickly flesh-coloured pink with flattened, lettuce-like leaves. I searched for, and hovered my fingers above, the tentacles of nondescript anemones. I located a family of glossy rust-coloured balls, fastened to the inward slope of a rock, and tugged them slightly. They were held fast. I selected the best looking empty snail and turned it to reveal its phosphorescent underside. The top of it was covered in algae. I dropped it and ran my hand down the gravelly face of a rock towards a grey-green starfish. I prised it off the rock, held it in my palm, and put my other hand in the water so that I could feel the pattern of protrusions on its upper surface. It reminded me of something. I remembered. The lid of my grandmother’s sewing basket was lined with a silk cushioning for the storage of pins and needle and amongst the inserted needles was one she called a bodkin. I loved poking it through paper to make a pattern, but even more, I liked reversing the paper and caressing, to and fro, the tiny raised paper edges caused by my stabbing.

The afternoon wore on. I continued my exploration of the pool. I was taking my time. I knew, I just knew, that if I was patient I would find what I was looking for.

> In my final year of college I was lucky enough to be included in our drama group’s visit to Japan. Well, it wasn’t really due to luck but to the preference of my drama teacher. Although we had by now exhausted the tactile pleasures of textile research, and he had obtained a steady boyfriend, we retained the warmth of a friendship grown out of prolonged intimacy.
> 
> While my fascination with Japanese theatre was genuine, inspiring me to read and to pore over images from its traditional forms - kabuki, noh, kyōgen and bunraku – my real interest lay in Japanese textiles. I admired these above all others. As did the Japanese university student who I met at the Tokyo Kimono Museum, who took me to his flat and took my clothes off, and taught me how to dress in kimono. He clothed me head to foot in the undergarment, the beautiful ‘floating’ lining which brushed against my skin like a breeze, the long deeply pleated skirt – hakama -  which didn’t quite reach my ankles, the kimono like jacket and various sashes and ties. He made me hold my arms out and slipped his hand inside the layers of the miyatsukuchi, the opening under the sleeve, and found my bare skin, and scratched it lightly with his finger-nails.
> 
> He paraded me around the flat, and finally took me into his bedroom, where he divested me of sufficient garments to expose me. He found a box of tissues, removed his glasses, and knelt in front of me. I closed my hands over the knot of the datejime sash. It was starched, and the edges of the bow were crisp. His hands skimmed up and down the sides of my thighs. The rims of the datejime pressed into the underside of my palms. The memory of the silk undergarment awoke in every pore of my body.
> 
> Afterwards he tenderly wiped me and his mouth with the tissues. I said “May I?" and reached down to touch his hair. It was lustrous, silky, almost wet to the touch. He bowed his head. Then he made a low grunting sound which I took to be appreciative. The cool, almost liquid, sensation of his hair sliding between my parted fingers, the press of his head against my lower abdomen, was pouring vitality into my genitals like water, renewing both their strength and his thirst.
> 
> The theatre trip was enlightening as to theatre, but Hotaka taught me the drama of dress. On our last meeting, when he was throwing a length of silk over me, drawing it off, and throwing it again, I aked him the meaning of his name. He said it meant steps. The steps to a mountain peak. "This peak," he said, winding the silk, which was pale blue and patterned with clouds, around my cock, arousing me so instantly and thoroughly I thought I would ejaculate on the spot, sprinkling my personal rain all over that light-as-air, swirling cloud of pale morning sky.

 To be continued....


End file.
